The Hobwit Chapter One
by Odo Banks
Summary: Bango Bigguns goes on an Adventure with a Wizard and Thirteen Dwarfs - whether he likes it or not. This is Re-edited Version of an Original Post .


**The ****Hobwit**

**(or Here, There and Everywhere)**

**P****RELUDE**

... One evening, when Bango Bigguns was barely in his Tweens, he was out on one of his walks and became so engrossed watching two conies in the process of making more conies, on a hillside, that he quite lost track of time. Nightfall fell (which it tends to do, whether tautologically or not) and Bango decided he would not reach Bug End safely in the dark, for there was a rumour that the Necromuffer's dark spies were in the area. (Mind you, it was only a rumour!) But as Bango had a dwarf cloak in his handbag to keep him warm (he had 'borrowed' it from a troop of travelling dwarf miner-musicians that he only later got to know), he decided to sleep out under the stars. He found a copse of trees with a leafy floor and made camp there in a spot overlooking the road east of Hobwiton.

In the middle of the night, Bango was awoken by joyous sad exquisite singing. It was that particularly lovely singing that you only ever hear on quiet country roads in the middle of nowhere in high summer. Bango sat up and wiped his eyes.

The voice became louder and then along the road walked a beautiful elf. Well, not so much 'walked' as 'glided'. She was not only the most beautiful elf he had ever seen, she was the only elf he had ever seen, and her shimmering beauty set her apart from all the other beautiful elfs he had never seen.

Bango was enraptured and he cried out in fluent Simbarin, "Hey, Lovely Lady, don't just walk (or glide) on by, with nary a glance at me. And please don't say you can't come and sit with me and so forth! Of course you can! Have I not left this spot between me a fallen pinecone to sit your loveliness upon? It is only a small gap, but surely squeezeworthy. Anyway, what else is there to do out here in the middle of nowhere when the Evenstar is shining?"

The Elfish Lady let out a tinkering laugh (not a jolly laugh, as that would be unbecoming for an elf), and she straightaway glided up under the trees and sat with him for a nary while. It was as if she had heard his cry and was responding to it. Indeed, she was very kind and sat with him a fairly long nary while. Indeed, as the Evenstar was casting its ethereal light upon the mortal world, an unknown amount of time did pass, for time (especially Elfish Time) was quite different in those far off days, though just how far off in calendar terms is truly hard to say.

"I have a small flask of beer," said our Bango after a nary while (still using the Simbarin he had learned from 'Elfish Tongues for Idiots'), "Would you like to take a wee guzzle?"

"I've never guzzled such a liquid," answered the gorgeous Elfish Lady in a voice that could melt hearts, launch ships, and make Catholic Priests ponder their celibacy. (Of course, I can only give a vague translation of the Elfish she used, and I realize her words can't sound ever so pretty in English, but I can assure you they sounded really elegant and sensual in Elfish).

So anyhow the Lady had a good smidgen from Bango's flask. After a moment, she sighed. "Oh, I feel a slight tingle in a part of my beautiful body, but the tingle is not in that part of my beautiful body that a man has got, but in that part of a (real) woman that a (real) woman has got, for it is in the selfsame part that in a man is missing, whether now or in time immemorial (I include herein, Elfish Time, dear Bango, if truly that be your name!) Nor is that tingle in that part of me that is the end of my finger." And she smiled at him with eyes agleam like amethysts and diamonds and carbuncles.

Bango smiled slyly and took a swig too. "Oh I see what you mean, for I too feel a tingly sensation in a certain part of me, which is truly that part of me that a (real) Lady does not possess, and I assume here that Elfish Ladies are conformed generally after the same fashion that hobwit ladies are. Nor is it in the part which is that part that is the end of my finger, though the part I refer to might verily be thought 'finger-like' when glimpsed briefly in dim light on the occasion of me having happy thoughts whilst watching certain hobwit lasses skinny-dipping in The Puddle, though not the ugly ones."

And they laughed at that, and after that their night passed both sweetly and somewhat energetically...

Bango woke next morning with a root in his back and a certain part of his body very chafed and sore, but it was not the part that was that part that was the end of his finger. And Bango mulled over things as he blinked in the morning sun. He wondered if, after all, last night had been nothing more than a big marvellous sweaty dream. Mind you, his palms were not the least bit chafed, as one might expect if indeed that part of his body (that was not the part of his body that was the end of his finger) had been worked vigorously all through the night by his determined hand while sleeping, and yet it could not be denied that the former part, I mentioned, and not that part which was the palm of his hand, was red and sore.

Anyway, the Elfish Lady had mysteriously vanished, very mysteriously, not even the end of her finger remained. Mind you, it was surely possible that fair former-maid might merely have wandered off while Bango was asleep - that sleep having been a long deep sleep full and content.

Bango never found out that the Elfish Lady was a mighty Princess with Mairn blood (pronounced 'Mair-ren') who bore his child. For the truth was Bango it had been no dream, it had really happened (and it had been great!) Bango had had what we now know as a "right-royal-nocturnal-session" - though this sounds far more elegant when you say it in Elfish. It was merely a coincidence that what had happened was exactly what always happened in a lovely dream Bango often had - indeed, most nights. Remarkably, it was the selfsame dream that many other hobwit lads (and hobwit lasses of a certain persuasion) had been having since time immemorial. Anyhow, the Elfish Lady subsequently (after deep reflection) named the newborn child 'Spiegel'. This translates as "Little Elf-like-Hobwit", but only after passing it down through Simbarin into Westron and so on into English, and using quite a slab of poetic license as well....

**C****hapter One**

**A****n Unexpectedly Long Chapter**

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobwit. Not a dirty filthy hole with mysterious stains on the carpet, or ugly dust piles under the sofa, nor yet an absolutely clean and tidy hole, because the hobwit was a bit fat and lazy. If the hole was largely prefabricated, it was nonetheless quite artful (airy-fairy even), decorated in a lovely art deco style. It was full of lovely garish blue and purple lamp-stands and disco-glass chandeliers (not large, everything in the hole was small, including our hero, in more ways than one), and no one knew how the disco-lights were powered, but it had something to do with magic – but more of that later.

The hobwit's hole (and it was a large one) had a long passage that started at a spiffy green round front door (clever post-modern architecture that) which looked out over The Puddle. The doorway, when open, looked like a mouth puckering in surprise - and one can easily imagine an 'ooh' sound emitting from it. The passage that led from it went straight into the ground, but not absolutely straight, having a variation of three degrees in several places, which was undetectable to a casual eye - but not to a Builder's eye - you know what they're like!

The passage went down through The Hump ('The Hump' as most locals called it, though it was also known as 'The Humping Hill' by those in the know). Many doors opened out on both sides of the passage (some of which the hobwit wisely kept securely locked). Some of the doors opened into pantries full of every foodstuff imaginable (including foreign stuff from countries that may or may not have actually existed in those days). Some opened into enormous clothes-closets (the hobwit had whole rooms full of clothing made by who-the-hell-knows-who). Some opened into bathrooms with elfish posters on the walls (the hobwit was very fond of elfs). At last, the passage exited at the bottom end of The Hump. No one knows what shape or colour the exit portal was, for it was never mentioned in the Red Tome.

Now the mother of our hobwit: what is a hobwit? My Goodness! What a stupid question! Haven't you even read 'The Hobwit' yet? (Don't play dumb, you know what book I mean!) Go on – get off with you! Come back when you've read it. I'll wait here until you get back. Sheesh! Some people!...

Back, are you? Have you read it? Yeah, sure you have! Oh well, I know you're type and I guess I shouldn't pretend I don't. [Sigh!] Here goes…

Hobwits are (or were) a furry little species somewhere on the evolutionary scale between rabbits and humans. They are (or were) very cute and cuddly and have (or had) furry feet, and they smoke (or smoked) a lot of pipe-weed – at least the more well-to-do do (or did). Mind you, the poorer hobwits eked out their lives in muddy holes or under large stones and can't (or couldn't) afford tinder-boxes or matches, let alone narcotic plants introduced from Numbynor... Oh did I mention hobwits have (or had) naturally curly brown hair growing on their heads and on their naturally leather-like feet, but not anywhere else as far as I know? And food - they love (or loved) it, and a lot of it, if they can (or could) get it. Oh and they are (or were) really popular with females of every persuasion (if persuaded) because hobwits remind (or reminded) them ever so much of teddy bears. Well, this should be enough to go on with.

Now Bango Bigguns – the hero of our tale - was a well-to-do hobwit.

Yes, that's his name! No, I'm not pulling your chain!

Anyhow, he was about fifty years old, a portly chap, and set in his ways. If you had asked him what he thought about adventures (for instance) he would have said he could take them, or leave them, but preferred to leave them. In fact, sneaking around The Riding at night, either studying the stars (yeah, right!) or trying to meet elfs in the woods to form platonic relationships (yeah right!), was the height of adventure for him. As to doing anything dangerous – nah – he'd have given it a miss every time. You could tell that just by looking at him. He was a self-satisfied tubby little chap and going off on dangerous adventures was just something respectable hobwits never did. And, I mean, he lived a life of ease for God's sake! Why the hell would he need to go off and risk his life? Indeed, he was a second edition of his solid, stolid and squalid father, the reputable Baldy Bigguns who had been extremely respectable – apparently.

Now – the mother of Bango Bigguns was the famous Helbanga Toot. How Baldy hooked up with her is anyone's guess, for she was a daughter of the Old Toot who lived at Grave Smells across The Puddle. I can tell you now the Toots were not respectable at all. Not that Helbanga was by any means the worse of them – her two sisters were. They were famous those girls – though the word infamous seems a better description. Bigbanga and Ballbanga Toot were well known all over the Shire - very well known if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Anyhow, you definitely have enough to go on with.

One morning, when the world was green and innocent (apparently), Grandelf came along... Oh damn! Is that the time? Well, off to bed you go. I'll pick up the story tomorrow night! Don't pout! Get to bed! Or do you want me to get the switch out?

...

Now, where were we? Ah! This is the bit I think…

One sunny morning, Bango was sitting out on his doorstep puffing away on his pipe, enjoying the last of his Bongbottom Leaf, when an old fellow came hobbling up Slipshod Lane. (The old fellow seemed to have a bad back, but as that doesn't come into the story, I won't mention it again). When the fellow reached Bango, he cast the little hobwit in his shadow (possibly deliberately) then straightened up (so he might have been hobbling for some other reason than having a bad back) and thrust out his bushy twig-full eyebrows.

Bango put aside the letters he'd been opening (tearing up the bills, of course) and looked up at the strange apparition before him. What he saw was a tall man – though the tall man was not actually a man at all, even if he looked ever so much like one, and a very old looking one at that. He just looked man-like. Anyway, the old man-like fellow wore a pointy wizard's hat, and a long blue-grey wizard's cloak, and a pair of big black wizard's boots (the ones you get from wizard shops), and leaned on a sturdy wizard's staff, held in an ancient hand that looked like it had been burnt several times by wizard's fire. Bango wondered if he was a wizard.

"Good morning," Bango greeted the tall old man-like fellow brightly, for the hobwit was in a chipper mood, having recently finished a hearty breakfast made up of seven rashes of bacon, seven thick pancakes smothered in golden syrup, washed down with seven pints of milk (possibly goat's milk, but who can know?) Anyway, the little fellow had every reason to feel good.

Greatly contented, he sent out an enormous puff of black smoke to float out over The Hump. The puff of black smoke looked exactly like a black puff of black smoke, but it might easily have been mistaken for a little black cloud, if the sunlight had not been so bright and the general visibility so excellent.

Old Bango was very proud of it anyhow. "It's a good morning for blowing an artistic puff, don't you think? Lovely puff, that!"

"Very nice," the stranger lied. "And what a lot of things you use 'Good morning' for!"

"Pardon me?"

"And to think I should be greeted at the door of Helbanga Biggun-Toot's chubby son, as if I was some disreputable button salesman…!"

"Are you selling buttons?"

"No – sold out."

"Who are you anyway?"

"You might know me by many names."

"I don't know you by any names."

"Ah!" the old man-like fellow said sadly, "I suppose it has been a long time since I was in these parts. Yes, thirty five years – and possibly more.... Let me help. My name around here is Grandelf."

"Grandelf did you say?" Bango ruminated. "Now that does sound kind of familiar… Are you an elf?"

"No, sadly I'm not."

"But your name…?"

"Just one of those quirky things really... though I'm a Mair from the Blessed Realm of Eleanor, and have a fairly good relationship with them. Funny to say, but most folk around here think I'm a wizard. I'm not really, you know. Or, at least, not technically... I'm a Mair – did I just say that...?"

"Yes, you do look like a wizard," Bango mused aloud. Then he burst out somewhat disapprovingly, "My goodness, you do look disreputable! Just look at your grubby wild-eyed face, and your long grey hair and beard! My! They hang down to your midriff and buttocks, and all tangled up and knotty and filthy with twigs and cobwebs! Have you been sleeping under hedges by any chance?"

"Of fiddle-faddle," Grandelf answered ruefully, as he rubbed his back (perhaps he did have a bad back after all), "Where I sleep, and who I sleep with, is nobodies business."

"There's a lot of it," Bango continued.

"Pardon me?"

"You've got a lot of hair."

"Oh I see. Very distinguished don't you think?"

"Long and messy I'd call it."

Indeed, Grandelf had a lot of grey hair, dirty as mentioned, and long and wispy, and not tied up with even one ribbon, elastic band or bobby-pin. In fact, had his hairdressers been there they would have been disgusted with him. And the dandruff! Oh my God – the dandruff!

Indeed, the hobwit hairdressers in Wee - which was east of The Riding beyond the Verryold Forest and is not mentioned in this story - were well aware of his dandruff problem. Indeed, they often called him "Dandruff", and right to his face! The wizard would love to have spanked those impertinent hobwit maidens - for more than one reason - but as they were the only professionally trained hairdressers in Western-world in the Third Age, he had always to control his temper.

"Well, never mind my hair," Grandelf frowned. "I need to talk to you."

"Oh it's you, Grandelf!" Bango exclaimed, for a host of childhood memories had suddenly come flooding into his head. "I remember you now!"

Yes, it was Grandelf! Oh blimey! The Grandelf! It could it be none other! Oh my Goodness! If you had heard only seven percent of what I've heard about him, and I only know about seven percent of all there is to know, you'd be prepared for seven percent of any sort of tale about him!

And Bango could not contain his excitement.

"Not the Grandelf whose amazing fireworks stimulated Hobwiton about thirty five years ago! Oh how I adored those fireworks! Snapdragons and rhododendrons, and agapanthus too, and rows of pansies set out in neat boxes – pansies of many colours! I remember them from when I was a gay little lad. Wonderful! Not the Grandelf who had a special sky rocket you showed to little hobwit boys and girls, but only in private, and only after they had sworn seriously binding oaths to not reveal what they had seen - so as not to spoil the surprise for other little hobwit boys and girls! Not the Grandelf who gave Candy Cotton a pair of magic bracelets one Friday night that clasped her wrists to her ankles and left her weary but smiling come Monday morning! Not the Grandelf who was responsible for so many hobwit lads and lasses going off on wild adventures, everything from climbing trees, to burning them down, to chopping them up for pulp to sell to industrialized nations! Off you'd take them into any dark wood or cave or derelict cottage you could find, rarely to return! Life used be quite inter - I mean, you seem to be responsible for any number of unexplained disappearances…!"

"Oh well," Grandelf smiled nostalgically, "You at least remember my fireworks kindly – though not very accurately, apparently; you seem to have confused them with a variety of flowering annuals and shrubs... Nonetheless, for the sake of your buxom dead mother, I'll send you on the adventure I'm planning. It's the least I can do..."

"What adventure?"

"The one I'm sending you on!"

Bango became suspicious (as well he might). "You did say an 'adventure'?"

"Yes, I wish you'd listen. I don't want to say too much this early in the story, but I plan to send you off on a dangerous adventure with thirteen dwarfs. They're off to kill a Mythological Beast (I must be careful of spoilers, of course!) After the Mythological Beast is dead, you can take it's ...er… stuff. (I'm not at liberty to mention what the stuff is – for the same reason I just gave in the brackets above). Frankly, I've had a bugger of a time finding someone like you who is simply begging to go along."

"I never begged any such thing!" Bango exclaimed.

"Yes you did."

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes you did - several times."

"Several times! No, I didn't!"

"Well, at least twice."

"I don't want any adventures, thank you very much!"

"But it will be hilarious for me, and possibly financially beneficial for you - if you actually survive, that is."

"Financially beneficial, did you say?" Bango asked, showing he was not quite as prosy (whatever that means) as he thought he was, especially when it came to gaining a financial advantage. "Where would we be going exactly?"

"Oh over there somewhere," Grandelf smiled down at him. As he spoke, Grandelf stretched out his arm to point in the direction of the Pointy End, a copse of trees that grew on a low hill a few miles east of them. Above the pointiest tips of the trees, far, far away, pointed the pointiest snow-tipped peaks of the Mushy Mountains.

Bango squinted at the Pointy End, having to shade his eyes in the bright morning sunlight. He frowned uneasily. As far as he knew, there had never been a confirmed sighting of any Mythological Beast in the trees of the Pointy End (though Old Dickie Nob swore he often saw a big breasted tree walking there on summer evenings nattering on about gardens and about some other Talking Tree with a handsome beard – but of course no one ever believed the drunken bum). But Bango remembered all those hobwit lads and lasses going off with Grandelf, never to return...

"So you want me to go there with you?" Bango asked carefully.

"I do indeed," Grandelf grinned down at him, with his twig-full eyebrows raised encouragingly.

"Ah! I don't think so!" he squeaked in fright. "I don't want any adventures, thank you very much! Not today, anyhow...! But come around for tea tomorrow, and we'll discuss any other fiscal plans you might have! Yes, come around tomorrow!" And the flustered and flummoxed little fellow scuttled off into his hobwit hole, slamming the door right in the wizard's face – which was just as well, because Grandelf was hoping to stay.

The wizard stood chuckling on the doorstep of Bug End for quite awhile (he had had plenty of doors slammed in his face over the years and was used to it). Eventually, the wizard stepped up to the beautiful art deco door and (using his magic staff as a gigantic pencil) scrawled a comprehensive message on its freshly painted surface. His message was written in a runic alphabet, of course, because any type of cursive script - especially Elfish - is inordinately difficult to write if you are using a wizard's staff to do it – you probably didn't know that. Then Grandelf hobbled off down Slipshod Lane to find a masseuse – I can't remember why.

Meanwhile, Bango was already gulping down his third breakfast for the morning, thinking he had avoided adventures quite nicely. Yeah, right!

…

Bango had a shocking memory and he totally forgot all about Grandelf and so had absolutely no idea who might be ringing the doorbell the very next evening.

"I wonder if that's the pipe-weed I ordered?" he said hopefully as he hurried to the door.

You can imagine his surprise then when he found it was not his cousin Druggo at all. No, it was an old dwarf with a white egg-stained beard. The dwarf leaned on a clarinet-cum-walking stick and was clad in a hedge-weathered cloak.

"Dwarfen at your service," the dwarf said in a remarkably feminine voice, while bowing deeply.

"'Dwarfen' did you say?" Bango asked in surprise.

"Dwarfen, it is."

"Isn't that what you are, not who you are?"

"No, it's my name."

"Oh well then," Bango said slowly. "Pleased to meet you…'Dwarfen'... Oh! - and welcome to my humble home…"

A bit stiff perhaps, but how would you feel if a dwarf called Dwarfen unexpectedly came ringing your bell?

After an awkward moment, Dwarfen said, "So I'll just hang my beard up, shall I?"

"Yes, please do," Bango said feeling a bit stunned.

So Dwarfen hung up her beard (the best kind of detachable party beard) on a peg in the hallway. "I could do with a drink, you know," she added as she turned back around.

Bango blinked, but then he remembered his manners. "Will it beer or whisky?"

Sternly the dwarf said, "Wine, if you don't mind; and I'll have it in the sitting-room thank you. I'm just off to powder my nose."

So a bewuthered and beweathered Bango ran off to pour out a dram of Old Wino in the sitting-room, seriously wondering what kind of night he might be in for, and was this just some kind of warped joke contrived by Druggo? Before he could come up with any sort of answer though, there was another ring on his doorbell.

"Now, I don't know what's going on," said our Bango, "but my every instinct tells me that that'll be another dwarf."

Bango ran and opened his door and...

Yep, another dwarf!

"Bwalin at your service," said the silver bearded dwarf leaning on a flute-cum-walking-stick. He gave a deep bow.

Bango was speechless.

The old dwarf (thus the silver beard) straightened up again and spied Dwarfen's beard in the hallway. "Ah! I see my brother is here already."

"Your brother, did you say?" Bango asked, trying to collect his wits, "No, I don't think so… some strange lady dwarf has turned up, but…"

"Yes," Bwalin smiled. "I'm actually talking about my sister Dwarfen," and Bwalin gave him a big wink. "She likes to think she's one of the boys, you see. It's a secret known only to us conspirators - and Grandelf, of course."

"But…" Bango stuttered.

Bwalin laughed. "Yes, I see what you're thinking: 'If it's all such a secret, then why blurt it out the first second we meet?' Oh Mr Bigguns, as you're our chief burglar-assassin, you'll soon work it out anyhow. I mean to say, the first time we stop for a roadside call of nature and twelve stand while one squats – well, even you'll begin to ask questions!" He laughed again. (He laughed a lot, old Bwalin. He was one of the nicest dwarfs you could ever meet.)

"But…!"

"Oh dear Mr Bigguns: Grandelf himself told us you're a pumpkin head, and yet surely not even you can be that much of a pumpkin head!" and Bwalin laughed again.

"But…"

"Oh dear Mr Bigguns, please stop saying 'but.' It's starting to give me the shits. Now, I'll just be off to your third pantry to grab those seven beautiful round seed-cakes you baked for your after-supper morsel. I must say, I'm glad I got here before that glutton Bumbur did!" And with that, Bwalin took off down the passageway.

"Thirteen dwarfs," Bango pondered incredulously when he was gone. "Burglar-assassin?" he asked himself in confused alarm (that didn't sound good at all, at all!) "Pumpkin Head!" he grated in some annoyance. "My goodness," he added in agitated befuddlement, "this is turning out to be the most awkward Wednesday since the Wednesday before last!"

And then the doorbell rang again.

By now Bango was becoming a trifle miffed – as well he might – though he now remembered yesterday's (sometimes esoteric) conversation with Grandelf. "If I didn't know better, that old scallywag has gone and brought an adventure right into my hole," complained our Mr Bigguns. "But if Grandelf thinks I'm going to sneak off into some Mythological Beast's palace, murder him, and steal his ruby slippers – or whatever – well, that wizard's got another thing coming! My goodness me, as if I'd ever be capable of doing such a thing!"

Then the doorbell rang again, long and loud, as if some angry jilted husband had come to take him to task.

"Not another dwarf!" Bango growled and hurried to open the door. But it wasn't a dwarf. It was seven of them. And before you could say "How's your mother?" they had pushed into his hallway and were bowing, and hanging up hoods of assorted colours on pegs, and putting drum-cum-pots, and cymbals-cum-earrings, and harps-cum-portable-clotheslines, and electric-guitars-cum-axes (two of them) neatly in a corner.

Then they all lined up and intoned in unison, "Biffo, Boppo, Ignory, Snorey, Groin, Poin and Snodgrass – at your service."

Surprisingly, given the unsettling circumstances, Bango remembered the proper protocols this time. "And me at you, yours, your mothers, fathers and all your distant relatives!"

The formalities dealt with, the seven dwarfs hurried off to raid Bango's pantries. In a trice they were in the sitting-room with Dwarfen and Bwalin, eating and drinking like pigs, and talking like they were a bunch of old and very dear friends (though, in fact, half of them hated each other).

Bango got out a couple of bottles of Old Wino and plopped down on the hallway rug. "If they're all staying," he muttered to himself, "I'm going to get pissed!"

Then a loud knock came at the door. It was as if some naughty person was hitting it firmly with a large stick - or maybe even a staff.

"More dwarfs for sure," Bango hissed despairingly and took a huge swig from one of his bottles. He then started weeping into his hands. But he was interrupted by an even louder knocking on his door. "If that's not a wizard's staff, then I'm the descendant of a rodent," he muttered bitterly, "which I'm not, no matter what Mayor Whitefeet thinks!"

He looked around for his walking stick, "I'll give that Grandelf what for!"

And, angry as a dragon in a pinch, he leapt to his furry feet. But he could not find his walking stick – which only made him angrier still (as angry as a Balrog with an invitation to a pool party, in fact!)

"Darn Wednesdays!" he cried. "They've been an absolute pain in the buttocks this year!"

Then the door bell rang insistently- and the extremely irritating and probably destructive knocking started again.

"Will you open that freaking door!" called the nine dwarfs from the sitting-room.

And Bango did open the door – like a champagne cork!

And to Bango's great surprise and consternation, a pile of dwarfs fell into the hall. At a quick count, four of them, with a big fat one on top.

Grandelf was standing at the back laughing his guts out. "Dear Bango," he chortled, "It's unlike you to keep unexpected guests waiting on the doorstep and then open it like a champagne cork. You've gone and buried the great Thorny Oakenbeard under three dwarfs! I dare say Fowly will soon be cussing and cursing, and Growly growling – and we'll probably need a crane to move old Bumbur! Forsooth, I say, and I'll say it again, forsooth!"

"*:^#! fat hobwit!" cussed one of two yellow bearded dwarfs in the middle of the pile - Fowly presumably.

"This is what you get when a woman insists on coming and making it 'Unlucky Number Thirteen' time!" growled the other yellow beard – Growly presumably.

"*:^#! women!" Fowly cussed.

"See!" Grandelf grinned.

"Lucky I fell on top," said Bumbur who was extremely hefty. "I might have hurt myself otherwise."

Bango wasn't angry anymore – he was aghast. With Grandelf's help, he lugged Bumbur up onto his tree-stump legs, followed by Fowly and Growly.

Slowly and painfully the great Thorny Oakenbeard climbed to his feet and he gave Bango a glare that almost burnt the poor hobwit's face off. But Bango was so repeatedly and utterly apologetically servile, that Thorny finally said, "Pray tell, forget it. Oh God, will you please just shut your blathering trap!"

The dwarf then grimaced and drew a deep breath, "Anyway, let's deal with the formalities, shall we! Ahem! I am Thorny, son of Corny, son of Horny - at your service!"

"Did you say 'Thorny', son of 'Corny', son of 'Horny'?" Bango inquired, quite stunned.

Thorny frowned, "Yes, Thorny, son of Corny, son of Horny, what of it?"

"Oh….?"

"Why does this always happen?" Thorny sighed. "Mr Bigguns, 'Thorny' is short for 'Thorndike', 'Corny' is short for 'Cornwall', and 'Horny' is short for 'Hornrable'. You know, I do get ever so sick of explaining it!"

"'Hornrable?' " Bango asked, his mind going blank.

"As in 'noble' or 'lordly' or 'gentlemanly'," Grandelf intervened helpfully.

"Oh – you actually mean 'honourable' don't you," Bango laughed in relief. "But shouldn't it be "Onny' for short?

"Not at all," Grandelf intervened. "It's a question of dialect, Bango. You're thinking of the Nogrog dialect in which it's pronounced 'honourable' – Thorny's people originally came from Bludicross in the Aqua Mountains, where it's 'hornrable'. It's a mistake any pumpkin head could make."

"Oh… I see…" Bango said, even though he didn't (and I don't suppose you do – unless of course you're a philologist or something).

Anyhow, a few seconds later a collection of camping-equipment-cum-musical-instruments was deposited in the hall. Immediately afterward, Growly, Fowly and Bumbur stumped off to raid Bango's pantries.

"I'll get the red wine," growled Growly.

"I wonder where the *:^#! croissants are!" cussed Fowly.

"I'm afraid it'll just have to be potatoes and cream buns for me," Bumbur put in sombrely, "I'm on a diet."

"It seems like they know the contents of my pantries better than I do!" Bango complained.

"Never mind that, my good hobwit," Thorny said gruffly, "There'll be time for idle banter later on. Off to the sitting-room we go. We've got a fair slab of gluttony and drunkenness to get through tonight – and perhaps a little planning as well."

So in a trice (or perhaps a 'quart' time being what is in Western-world) there were fifteen folk in Bango's sitting-room, scattered about on sofas, barstools and stolen milk crates. Bango took up a position on the hearthrug. He was both subdued and nervous. Sadly he watched as most of his precious comestibles were consumed at an alarming rate.

...

Bango sat on the hearth rug, his appetite quite dented. He nibbled on a biscuit. What would happen to him? He popped down a few jam tarts. Were these dwarfs really here to take him off on an adventure? Things certainly seemed to be moving in that direction. Down his throat gurgled a pint of eggnog. He wondered if he could manage a loaf of rye bread spread with pilchards in his upset state. Yes, he could…

In the fullness of time Grandelf rose unsteadily in his chair (having hit the port a bit too hard).

"I have an important announcement!" he slurred.

"Shut up everyone!" he yelled.

The dwarfs, who had been loudly discussing the pros and cons of live theatre for about two hours, fell silent.

"It's time to get out the pipe-weed," the wizard instructed them. "I hope everyone brought some!"

Gleefully, the dwarfs reached for their pouches. Bango's spirits lifted. He watched in hope as they filled their pipes and lit up. They took a drag in unison, exhaled, then sat back with satisfied expressions, and patted their full stomachs; some belched, while others farted.

"I don't suppose someone could lend me a fill," Bango squeaked. "I seem to have run out."

"How impertinent," Snodgrass sniffed.

"Fancy him begging for our prized pipe-weed like that!" snorted Biffo, a large tattooed fellow with a nasty jagged scar across his forehead. He looked the type who would kill people without a blink – and probably had.

"Ungracious swine," grumbled Boppo (who appeared to be Boppo's twin – though he had a scar across his nose, not across his brow).

Irritated, Bango shouted, "Me ungracious! What about all the food you lot have woofed down?!"

"Now, now," Grandelf said. "You are the host, and you know your duty, no matter how painful."

"What?"

"And you must not blame others for your lack of forethought, my good Bango," the wizard added kindly. "Now be quiet a moment. We have more important things to worry about. Hey, you dwarfs, who's going to start the smoke rings?"

Then for the next ten minutes the dwarfs blew smoke rings in delight. And the more they sucked and the more they blew, the shinier their eyes became.

"Not bad, not bad..." Grandelf commented as he watched their handiwork with a professional eye, "Oh not such a bad ring that one! Yes that one almost got through that other one without actually breaking up first! Not bad at all. Not too bad anyway..."

Finally, the dwarfs cracked the shits with him.

"Hey!" Poin grumbled. (At least, Bango thought it was Poin, the room being now so full of smoke). "If you can do better, Grandelf, then do better!"

Grandelf's eyes flashed. It was clear he was waiting for just such an invitation. He drew deep on his pipe. Then out came a smoky multicoloured three ring circus, with performing elephants in one ring, a troop of hobgoblin trapeze artists in another, and in the third a yellow haired, red nosed clown playing croquet with a trained monkey on the broad back of a silver stallion.

Most of the dwarfs clapped their hands in sheer delight as the smoke-circus dissipated, and Fowly said, "Well, that was pretty *:^#! impressive!"

But Growly was contrary. "I've seen better!"

"Don't be a nincompoop, Growly!" Dwarfen said scornfully, before addressing the wizard, "Oh Grandelf! That was stupendous! How ever did you do it?"

"It's just a little something I learned behind the dorms at Hogfarts - when I was just a lad, you know," Grandelf answered, clearly chuffed. "Mind you, I am a Mair," he added a trifle pompously, "So much of it comes naturally."

"Of where?" Snodgrass asked.

The wizard gazed at the dwarf blankly for a moment, then snapped, "What do you mean by 'of where' exactly?"

"What town are you the mayor of?" Snodgrass repeated slowly, as if he spoke to an imbecile. "It's a simple enough question."

"I'm not the mayor of any town!" Grandelf cried.

"Then why did you say you were a mayor?"

"No he didn't," said Bwalin, who did not like arguments of any kind. "Grandelf said he was a 'Mair'." The old dwarf smiled suddenly, "And he's not a horse either!"

Everyone laughed.

"Quite right, dear Bwalin," Grandelf said, giving the dwarf a fond look. (Everyone liked Bwalin).

"Is that the same as a 'Mayan' then?" Snodgrass asked.

"Yes, that's sounds right," Bwalin said sagely, "I trust you're thinking of the 'Mayans' from South America, of course. The singular is 'Mair' – odd as that might seem…"

Grandelf laughed gaily, "No, no, dear Bwalin - though that's an easy mistake to make. No, the word you look for is pronounced 'Mair-ren' not Mayan. It's spelt

M-A-I-R-N. At the risk of repeating myself: I'm a Mair – I'm from the Blessed Isle of Eleanor, you know."

"I didn't know #!*^*#! Eleanor was in #!*^*#! South America," Fowly said in surprise.

"That's because it's not," Grandelf retorted clearly miffed. "Let me help you if I may, young Fowly. The potato came from South America, the Shimmyrils came from Eleanor! Does that help?"

Fowly's eyes now took a queer inward looking slant, as if he sought answers within but could only find more questions. This was born out when at last he blurted, "Where the #!*^ is 'Eleanor' anyway?"

"Oh off in the west somewhere," Grandelf said vaguely.

"Well, isn't South America in the distant south-west," put in Bango, trying to reconcile the geographic confusion. "It could be the same place!"

Grandelf smiled tolerantly. "Try not to be too much of a pumpkin head if you can, dear Bango."

"Well, maybe you could sail west," Bango suggested undaunted, becoming more involved in the conversation than he had intended to, "but tack southward just before you get to Eleanor. After that it would be just be a hop and skip and a jump to South America, wouldn't it?"

"Bango," Grandelf said as patiently as he could, "No hobwit or dwarf can just sail anywhere near Eleanor."

"Why not?" asked all the dwarfs at once.

"Because Eleanor is a Very Special Place," Grandelf answered patiently, "My goodness! It's the Blessed Isle! It's the home of the Valero, for El's sake!"

"'Valero' does sound Latino…" Snodgrass commented. "Hey! I just thought of something. Can you get there, Grandelf? To Eleanor, I mean."

"Of course I can!" Grandelf snapped, and so abruptly they all jumped. Then Grandelf thought a moment, gave a small embarrassed cough, and added, "Well, at least I'll get back in when 'They' in their wisdom decide to let me back in."

"How do we get there then?" Bumbur persisted. "If we can't sail there, I mean."

"For you it's impossible," Grandelf said smugly, "Didn't I just say that? Eleanor is reserved for certain special people, dear Bumbur. It's a place for… ah... well, special people - like me, for instance."

"Yeah for special people," Snodgrass sniggered, "like Grandelf!"

Biffo butted in now. "Oh right! So this is how it works: if you're the mayor of some hokey little town in South America that no one has even heard of, you can get in, but if you're a hard working miner-cum-travelling-musician, you can't!"

Grandelf spluttered, "I told you, I'm not the mayor of some South American town! Have you even been listening?"

"Isn't Eleanor that place the elfs come and go to?" Thorny Oakenbeard asked rather sourly.

"It is," Grandelf said, still trying to contain his annoyance.

"#*!^#! elfs!" Fowly muttered under his breath.

"Perhaps we might change the subject," Bwalin placated them.

"Yes," Thorny put in grumpily. "The mere mention of elfs makes my corns throb!"

"I don't mind talking about elfs," Bango said meekly.

"What did you say?" everyone asked, scowling at him.

"Well, I wouldn't mind talking about the elfs."

"Oh wouldn't you?" scoffed everyone (except Grandelf).

"No, I wouldn't actually. I really like them you see."

"That's because you've never met any," Boppo said in a snide way.

"Yes, I have!"

"No you haven't!"

"I have, I say!" Bango said with a blush. "I met one in the woods east of Hobwiton one starry evening when I was barely in my Tweens… It was quite a few years ago, I grant you…"

"No you didn't!" all the dwarfs but one cried.

"Yes, I did. She was a beautiful elfish lady…!"

This claim was greeted by an explosion of derisive laughter.

"Yeah, sure you did!" all of them said, one after the other. "What was her name then?"

"I…. I… I didn't think to ask…"

Twelve dwarfs roared with laughter, but Thorny yelled out impatiently: "Enough of this nonsense! Hey! You slobs, tidy up the dishes. Then maybe we can get even drunker and have a deep and meaningful conversation!"

Bango now forgot all about elfish maidens, and leafy forest floors under the Evenstar, for every dwarf (except Thorny who was far too self-important) jumped up and laid their grubby calloused hands on his cutlery and plates.

Bango jumped up in a panic. "Oh never mind! I can do it!" he squealed.

Unfortunately, his distress only seemed to encourage the dwarfs. In fact, they burst into song, which is something dwarfs often do when they're working, 'Hi Ho Hi Ho' being their definite favourite, as you would already know, though on this occasion they decided to improvise.

Grab the Host but first close the curtains!  
Let's beat up the rodent until he is hurtin'!  
Then wrap him in pie dough! Roll him in flour!  
(Oh look at the blighter! See how he cowers!)

Grab both his legs! Pull down his trousers!  
Grab a good hold of the timid old wowser!  
Wrestle him down onto his plush carpet!  
Paint both his buttocks with a red target!

Slap him and spank him! Don't be too soft!  
Tickle his tackle. Let's see if he coughs!  
Then everyone line up – and don't hesitate!  
But carefully! Carefully! Don't chip his plates!

Of course, the dwarfs did none of these awful things, and in a trice every dish, fork and napkin was cleaned up and put neatly away, while little Bango was left to quiver quite unmolested on the hearth rug.

"All right everyone," Grandelf bellowed after everything was put in good order, "Off into the dining room! We'll sit around Bango's surprisingly long fourteen-seater table and get down to some serious business." The wizard looked down kindly at the little hobwit. "You'll have to sit on the dining room hearthrug I'm afraid, dear Bango."

"But…"

"Now, now, let's not go over that what's-in-a-good-host-however-painful business again!"

"But…"

Bwalin bent down and laid a steadying hand on Bango's shoulder, the end of the dwarf's beard tickling his ear, "Come along, my furry-footed friend. You know how we dislike all this 'but' behaviour of yours."

"What 'butt' behaviour," Biffo called from across the dining room. Bango could see him through the adjoining doorway, a look of stern interest on his battle-beaten face. "He's not a poof, is he?"

"No, not at all," Bwalin laughed (he had a very nice laugh), "Oh Biff, you've gone up the entirely wrong passage again - as usual!" And the old dwarf laughed again. And so did everyone else, except Bango - and Biffo, who stared at the hobwit disconcertingly.

Once they were all seated (with Bango on the hearthrug), Grandelf began immediately.

"Dear dwarfs and hobwit, I have gathered you here for a specific reason…."

"I hope you're going to keep this short!" Thorny Oakenbeard interrupted. "Don't go telling us a heap of stuff we already know!"

"Well, if that's how it must be" Grandelf said in an offended tone, "Now everyone, there are many things we've discussed already, but I think it only fair to say that our audacious and implacable burglar-assassin doesn't know the whole plan as yet…"

"I don't know any part of the plan yet!" Bango squeaked, feeling all trembling inside.

"Yes, quite right. Now, Bango, as you are well aware, we are off to slay the biggest, scariest, fiercest, nastiest firedrake of this firedrake infested time – or, at least, you are! After that, you can help steal his treasure…"

"It's my treasure!" Thorny Oakenbeard grumbled.

"Sorry," Grandelf answered testily, "Thorny's treasure! The chances are, of course, that Smug will roast you on sight Bango, and then eat you quick as this..." Grandelf popped a small piece of seed-cake into his be-whiskered mouth. "If so, the dwarfs will come back empty-handed…."

This was all very distressing really - though at least now the hobwit knew what the Mythological Beast was that Grandelf had referred to yesterday. They wanted him to kill Smug the Firedrake!

Bango shuddered.

At the mention of 'Smug will roast you on sight,' the poor little fellow felt a shriek rise in his voice-box. And when he heard: 'the dwarfs will come back empty-handed' he became horribly indignant. "Those selfish bastards!" he was thinking. "I mean to say, aren't they prepared to help me in a tight spot!"

The shriek that had risen in his voice-box now sang out from his mouth like a high pitched whistle. It was a shriek full of terror and furious anger – though it came across to the others as pure hysteria. In fact, it sounded to the dwarfs like he had gone quite mad.

Fortunately though, Boppo had once worked at the BLUDICROSS HOME FOR THE APPARENTLY INSANE and knew exactly what to do. The brawny battle-hardened dwarf jumped off his chair, launched himself at Bango, and knocked the hobwit flat, using an open handed cuffing motion, so as not to leave any telltale bruising.

Everything went dark grey, and streaky orange-red, and wispy…

...

…Bango swam back up into consciousness.

Where was he?

Oh! He was on his dining room hearthrug!

Then he overheard conversation – Groin was speaking.

"One shriek like that echoing in the bowels of Mount Solitaire and not only will Smug be on us, but so will his mother and father, and his second cousin Julian!"

"I assure you, our burglar-assassin has nerves of steel!" Grandelf reassured him. "He was only a little overexcited just now."

"Well, he looks more like a worrier than a warrior," Groin commented cynically (and Snodgrass sniggered). "He made a noise like a train whistle issuing from a railway tunnel!"

"I can't begin to tell you how anachronistic that sounds!" Dwarfen put in.

"Yes, and you're a woman and so you'd know, isn't that right!" Groin snapped at her.

Grandelf thrust out his heavy eyebrows angrily, "Groin, son of Swoin, son of Quoin, I'm ashamed of you! Dwarfen has as much a right to speak her mind in this company as any of us, irrespective how esoteric and typically womanly her comments!"

"Yes," Thorny Oakenbeard said, "Just because she's a woman doesn't mean we should treat what she says any differently than the actual males in this party!"

"All right, I take it back, Dwarfen," Groin grumbled, "but I still think Bango sounded like a train whistle!" Groin now turned to glare across at Bango. "Just look at him! He's more your petty-thief creep-up-behind type, not a genuine burglar-assassin! And I wish he'd stop bobbing up and down on the hearthrug!"

By now Bango had recovered enough from his cuff to the head to exclaim angrily, "I'm not bobbing - I'm trying to get a crick out of my neck! And, by the way, you're right: I'm not a burglar-assassin!"

"You are, you know," Grandelf said fondly.

"No, I'm not!"

"Well, you did steal into Mayor Whitefeet's house..."

"I did not! Primadonna invited me in!"

"Ah! Yes! And you stole a kiss or two from her, did you not?"

"She gave them away freely!"

"And what about this business I heard of you stabbing old Whitefeet in the back..."

"It was only metaphorically!"

"The point is," Grandelf said, "we need someone small and sneaky to come with us; someone who has very few scruples; someone who can creep in and find a way to assassinate a gigantic firedrake when he's not looking – or sleeping.... Shut up! Don't interrupt, Bango! I'm talking now...! Where was I...? Oh yes, we also need another Conspirator to come along, or else be stuck with thirteen dwarfs – and that's an unlucky number in anyone's language!"

"Well, there are fourteen of you already!" Bango yelled incredulously (and somewhat hopefully).

"I hope you're not including me in that count," Grandelf said sternly. "I'll come along for part of the journey, yes, but I'll leave you long before you reach Mount Solitaire."

"Why?"

"I'm off to do something we'll probably only find out about later," Grandelf said.

"Huh?"

"Let's not argue like this, old friend, I'm trying to help you!"

Desperately, Bango gasped, "Even if I could kill a firedrake, I could never steal his property! I'm not a thief, no matter what people say!"

The thirteen dwarfs burst out in laughter.

"What?" Bango wanted to know.

"So say you!" Bwalin put in, "But aren't you the selfsame hobwit that even now has Biffo's stolen cloak hanging on a peg in the hallway?"

"Oh," Bilbo thought blushing, "so these are those dwarfs...!"

"It does seem ironic that it was you who stole my cloak all those years ago," Biffo said and gave him a sardonic smile. "The two of us being what we are, and all..."

"No we're not!" Bango squeaked, knowing exactly what the brawny tattooed dwarf was getting at. "What I mean is: I'm not like that at all!"

Grandelf said, "That is as may be, Bango – the point is, you seem to have exhausted all your arguments against coming along, so let's move on, shall we?"

The wizard began to ruffle around within his cloak and pulled out a curious map and key.

"What are they?" Thorny Oakenbeard asked.

"They're a few curios you're grandfather Horny had. At least, I'm fairly sure he was Horny. I took them off him in the dungeons of the Necromuffer."

Everyone gasped in horror at the mention of that chilling name (or title), even Bango, an unworldly hobwit from The Riding, had heard of the Necromuffer!

"You mean to say you snuck into the Necromuffer's dark tower?" Thorny Oakenbeard asked, as he unfolded the map on Bango's fourteen-seater table. "How ever did you manage to do that?"

"Well, I didn't exactly sneak in," Grandelf said, carefully. "You see, many years ago I popped into Doll Goldigger to discuss a few topical things, and when I was there the Necromuffer showed me around. As a consequence I was shown into Horny's cell.

"I discovered your poor relative in an absolutely parlous state I'm afraid, Thorny – but fortunately he had this map, as well as a key, so my time was not totally wasted. They were the last of his worldly goods, even his clothes had rotted away to next to nothing. You might not want to hear this Thorny, but old Horny was covered head to toe with deep jagged whip-cuts, and had weeping sores everywhere – disgusting! And he positively stank! Stank of rotting flesh, he did! Yuk, Yuk and Yuk!

"Anyway, I immediately asked the Necromuffer if I could take the map and key. You see, it was utterly obvious Horny's brains were sheer mush, and it was not like he was ever going to use them again! Neither his curios nor his brains, for that matter!" Grandelf giggled at his little joke, but regained control when he saw the somewhat sad expression on Thorny's face his words had evoked. "Anyway, here's the key."

"You took them from my grandfather!" Thorny mouthed in utmost surprise as he stared bleakly from map to key and back again. "Poor, poor Grandfather…!"

"Well, at least on the balance of probabilities it was your Grandfather!" Gandalf answered pragmatically. "There is a small chance it was actually Corny, your father. Whoever he was, he couldn't remember his own name, as he lay there in a pool of his own rotting juices. But he reminded me strongly of you, Thorny, even if his face was seriously eaten away with dungeon-rot and maggots. It's the likeness with you that makes me think he was Horny not Corny. Anyway, seeing his map was a map of Mount Solitaire with a secret door marked on it, and as the key appeared to go with the map, I thought I'd grab them, thinking they might come in useful at some stage."

"The Necromuffer just let you take them?" Thorny asked in amazement.

"Well, it's not like I didn't ask nicely," Grandelf said, somewhat sheepishly. "And, remember, it was quite a few years ago, long before he turned nasty. Mirkwood is a very bad environment if you ask me," he added, somewhat confidentially, "and perhaps we should have seen it coming – no wonder he turned, if you know what I mean. And he was such a handsome chap, the Necromuffer, all shiny... and very charming… with a lovely fetching smile..."

"But what about the way he treated my grandfather?" Thorny exclaimed, angrily.

"Well he had been caught snooping around his bulwarks, you know," the wizard mouthed, somewhat limply, "And the penal code being what it was in those days..." His voice fell away.

"Hey!" yelled Snorey suddenly, "You must know who the Necromuffer is then!"

"No, not really," Grandelf replied, again somewhat sheepishly, "I forgot to ask... they were happier times, you see.... In those days you could meet people but not feel the need to ask intrusive questions – trusting times... Mind you, I admit I had a terrible feeling he was faking it even then...."

Thorny asked, "Why haven't you told me any of this before?"

"Oh I wanted to surprise you," Grandelf said, with a sudden grin. "Oh Thorny, I do know how much you love surprises!"

All the other dwarfs laughed and wagged their beards knowingly – except Dwarfen who just nodded her head. "He does, you know," they all said. "Hey Thorny, he's quite right, isn't he!"

Thorny frowned at Grandelf at first, but then he smiled and whatever tension there had been faded. "Yes," he chuckled, "You've got me there, dear, dear Grandelf. It's so true! I just love surprises. Oh it's just so-oh true!" And he laughed again – they all did.

But their merriment was short lived, for Bango asked suddenly, "What topical things did you discuss with the Necromuffer, Grandelf?"

Grandelf cast him a disapproving glance. "Oh a few things... but never you mind. Anyway, everyone, it's all settled now! We've got our Mr Lucky Number Burglar-assassin, and a very useful map, and a very useful key as well, and, of course, thirteen stout dwarfs to carry back the treasure after Bango stabs Smug to death. Things have worked out perfectly..."

"No they haven't," Bango protested shrilly, "As if I could kill the nastiest firedrake since Sarkastic the Insensitive! The very idea is ludicrous! I'm only three foot three!"

"Oh I wish you'd stop beating that dead horse, Bango!" Grandelf said severely. "You might be a short arse - but not by hobwit standards!"

"Anyway, Mr Bigguns," Bwalin put in encouragingly, "it's not the size of the hobwit it's the size of the fight in the hobwit that matters!"

"Let's have another song!" Ignory yelled out suddenly, because it was well and truly his turn to say something.

"Good idea," Thorny cried. "Go and get our camping-equipment-cum-musical instruments from the hallway everyone! Just grab my harp-cum-portable-clothesline, lads," Thorny called after them, "but don't forget to un-peg my socks!"

They then retired to Bango's sitting-room, and as soon as Biffo and Boppo had plugged their electric-guitars-cum-axes into the Power-Orbs Bango had only recently bought from the Magical Mystery Company in Needlegap, the dwarfish orchestra struck up a cacophonous music… Then the Company stopped for a few seconds while Bwalin cleaned grass out the end of his flute-cum-walking-stick… Then the dwarfish orchestra struck up once again. And I assure you, the music they struck up could definitely be described as peculiarly curiously interesting. Next thing, the dwarfs started singing. It was the deep throated slightly gay singing of dwarfs in their deep ancestral caverns, coal pits and storm-water tunnels:

Far beyond the far off Mushy Mountains,  
Past all those trees and lakes with fountains,  
We must away ere break of day - not later! -  
To go and kill that big and nasty fire-maker.

In days of yore, if not before, at least ages ago,

Smug came flying south and struck a great blow,  
His trampling feet and fiery breath killed sways of us,  
He powered through our Mountain like a runaway bus.

And now that firedrake has all our valuables,  
Diamonds, gems, and metals malleable!  
He's got our all our baubles and special stones,  
Including the more than famous Farkenstone!

Oh we must away early come the morning dim,  
To wrest our marvellous treasure from the Crim!

And then the music and the voices fell silent - which was just as well, because it was the worst song Bango had ever heard.

"Off to bed now!" Grandelf called out in a jolly voice. "Or else we'll sleep in and therefore make the song incorrect in at least one detail."

Bango wanted to ask more questions but Grandelf poked him with his staff a few times and shooed him protesting into his bedroom. Once inside, the hobwit noticed Biffo's brawny shadow lurking in the passageway, so he quickly locked the door.

With nothing better to do, he got ready for bed. He was feeling all knotty and upset in the stomach, as well he might, and it did not help when he glanced out his window and saw a huge mass of flame shoot up over the slums of East Hobwiton. It made him think of firedrakes settling with all fires blazing, on his beloved Hump…

Just then, Thorny Oakenbeard began to sing in the room next to him:

"Far beyond the far off Mushy Mountains,  
Past all those trees and lakes with fountains…"

Bango shuddered again, and he swiftly put in earplugs. He sincerely hoped there would not be too much singing in the days ahead…


End file.
